


The Lives We Save

by kazra



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2425925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazra/pseuds/kazra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ground is a dangerous place. Not everyone who lives there can survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lives We Save

          “Bandages, I need more bandages!” Clarke yells, and Jasper obliges. “I need moonshine, and someone start a fire!”

          Everyone rushes around Clarke, and her own words become inconsequential noise. Needles, syringes—quick, someone get her clean water. The list tumbles out of her vocal chords. Already, Clarke has done this too many times. She puts pressure on the wound, but her own hands are being stained at an alarming rate.

          The girl on the table bleeds out. Red liquid blooms across her clothing and drips onto the floor. Her face remains blank, passive. She isn’t even conscious enough to be aware of her fate.

          Clarke works quickly, but it isn’t enough. It never would have been enough. 

          “She lost too much blood, Clarke,” Raven says. “You did your best.”

          But her best wasn’t good enough, and a fresh grave appears outside the camp boundaries. Kids brush dirt off their hands and take their makeshift shovels back into camp. Clarke leans against a tree, watching the ordeal. She thinks about the girl, born in space and buried on the earth. Does she even know her name? No. It hadn’t mattered until now. What had she done to land herself in prison? What life could she have lead, if the circumstances were different? No one is older than 18 here. 

          “We’re too young for this,” she says to herself.

          “Your right about that, princess,” says Bellamy, walking up to her. _Bellamy_ , she thinks. _Bellamy is older than 18._

          “Don’t beat yourself up about it, it’s not your fault.”

          Clarke narrows her eyes. Who is he, to try to comfort her like this? “You’re right,” she says. “It’s your fault.”

          Bellamy looks at her sharply. “My fault?”

          “Yeah,” Clarke says, turning to him. “You gave the order to put her on border patrol.”

          “Listen, I’m trying to keep everyone alive—“

          “And look how well that’s working,” Clarke shoots back. They’re in each other’s faces now. Bellamy's expression is thunderous. Clarke stares up at him, chin lifted, defiant. “These _kids_ aren’t soldiers, Bellamy.”

          He glares at her, eyes darting between both of hers.

          “Well they are now. We have no choice, with the Grounders after us. How would you like it, Princess? Lay down our arms and surrender peacefully? If it were up to you and your boyfriend, we’d all be slaughtered.”

          Clarke’s face burns. “Finn isn’t my—“

          Bellamy grins. “That’s right.”

          Clarke grits her teeth. It was such a low, stupid blow. “You should be careful,” she says as Bellamy turns around. “Next time, you could be the one that needs help.”

          He looks back. “Is that a threat?”

          Clarke’s insides squirm. The words taste wrong, but she spits them out. “I’m just saying. Maybe I don’t care if you live or die.”

          “Likewise, Princess.”

          He storms off, leaving Clarke with a headache, staring at a grave she still can’t help but feel guilty for.

          She’s the best they have, she decides. She’ll just have to be better. 

          The rest of the week is quiet, calm. The grounders are leaving them alone for the moment. The kids hunt, gather, and prepare for the winter. Clarke uses this time to recover. She avoids Bellamy, mostly. When she has to talk to him she uses civil, but clipped phrases. She goes to the river and washes herself, lying her clothes to dry on the rocks. She takes naps at the insistence of Monty, who says she needs more rest. She organizes her medical supplies in the drop ship. Next time she’ll be ready, she promises herself. 

          Unfortunately, she’s not sure if there was anything she would have been able to do to prepare for the next injured body that finds its way to her makeshift surgical table. 

          “What happened?” she demands. “Was it Grounders?”

          “N-no,” says the boy who brought him in. “It was an accident.” 

          An accident. Not a Grounder attack, not war, but an accident that brought Bellamy Blake here. 

          Two arrows drop out of the boy’s hand and land on the table next to Bellamy. One of them is broken and missing the arrowhead.

          “You pulled out the arrows? You should have left them in! He’s lost so much blood because of you!”

          “Clarke,” Jasper says, and she tries to calm down. Pressure on the wound, stop the blood loss. Three other arrows stick out of Bellamy’s chest.

          “He was showing us how to hunt, but we tripped a Grounder snare, and… We tried to pull them out, but then he started bleeding a lot and he passed out.” She wants to demand more from the boy, shake him until she finds out exactly how this happened. She looks up at him, and he flinches back from her glare.

          “I’m sorry! I—I didn’t know,” he says. His face is pale, bloodless. He’s worried, understandably. He could be personally responsible for the death of their leader. 

          “They think the Grounder trap was meant for animals,” Jasper says. He looks at her with careful eyes. “No one else was in the area.” 

          Clarke nods. She smooths back Bellamy’s hair from his face. Again, the list starts to tumble out of her mouth. “Get me water, a torch, and moonshine.”

          She examines the wounds—Three arrows protruding from his ribcage. Have they punctured his lungs? One clean hole underneath his heart. One mangled, ragged mess belching blood from his abdomen. Has it damaged any organs? There’s so much blood, how can she stop it? How much has he already lost?

          Questions, questions, questions. She tells her mind to stop. She breathes in, out. She can do this. She has to do this. 

          The wound leaking blood has to go first. She pulls up the hem of Bellamy’s shirt, exposing wound. It’s worse without the cover of red, tattered cloth. Monty appears with a torch and a bottle of his moonshine. 

          “Jasper, I need your knife.” He hands it over. Clarke passes it between the flames of the torch, heating it up. She nods at Monty, who takes the boy by his arm and leads him out of the drop ship. 

          If she stops the bleeding now she can patch up the skin later. That’s what she tells herself.

          She brings the searing tip of the knife down onto his skin. Bellamy wakes up. He tries so hard not to scream, and she really has to admire him for that. He groans though, gritting his teeth. 

          The wound is sealed shut now, and as long as there isn’t any internal bleeding, he should be good. She uses the knife to cut off the rest of his shirt.

          “Can’t… wait to get my clothes off, can you? Princess?” Bellamy gasps.

          Clarke doesn’t respond. Bellamy groans again and contorts his face in pain. 

          She places her hand against the warm, feverish skin of his chest, looking at the three arrows. Bellamy’s gaze follows her touch.

          “Jasper, I need you to hold him down. You have to keep him absolutely still.” The boy obliges, each taking a shoulder and pinning Bellamy down to the table. 

          Clarke takes hold of the first arrow.

          “Bellamy?” Octavia walks into the drop ship, rushing to her brother’s side. “No, no, no, no.” 

          “Octavia, you shouldn’t be here,” Clarke protests. Octavia shakes her head. She grips Bellamy’s hand, looking at Clarke with pleading eyes. 

          “Clarke, he’s my _brother_. Please, you have to save him! Please! He’s all I have!”

          Clarke stares at Octavia, the words on her lips: _I’m doing my best_. She doesn’t say anything.

          “Octavia, it will take more than this to kill me.” Bellamy tries to grin at his sister, coughs instead, and his lips are painted with red.

          “Don’t talk,” Clarke snaps. The arrows—have they punctured his lungs? How badly? What will happen if she tries to take them out?

          Time to find out.

          She grips the arrow, and trying to keep it level with the entry wound, slowly pulls it from his chest.

          It’s a good thing she had Jasper hold him down because his back arches and he groans in pain again. 

          “Hold him still!” she hisses, but the skinny boy is too weak to contain Bellamy. 

          The arrow slides out of his skin, red and sticky. Blood pours out of the wound. Pressure—needle, thread, five stitches. The wound seals shut.

          Next arrow. 

          Octavia clutches her brother’s hand and whispers his name. Bellamy either ignores her or can’t hear her. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut and his fists clenched. 

          Same process. Repeat. Clarke stitches the wound shut without ever changing her expression. 

          But when she takes hold of the third arrow Bellamy lets out a yell. The arrow pierced straight through two of his ribs. Lots of nerve endings. Jasper is sweating with the effort of trying to keep him still. 

          This arrow doesn’t slide out as easily—it must be lodged in between the bones of his ribs. She pulls harder. Bellamy screams. 

          “Stop it!” Octavia yells. “Clarke, stop! You’re hurting him!”

          “I’m trying to save him,” says Clarke. Her voice is calm, emotionless, and Octavia narrows her eyes at her.

          “You would love it if Bellamy died, wouldn’t you? Then you would be the only leader here. Look at you! You don’t even care about him!”

          Octavia’s words sting. Clarke doesn’t want her to be right. She tries to ignore her and pulls on the arrow, forcing another scream out of Bellamy. The arrow gives, blood slides down his stomach, and Bellamy loses consciousness. 

          Before Clarke can reach for the needle and thread she’s pushed back into the wall by Octavia. Clarke’s head slams into the metal, and for a moment she sees stars. There’s a commotion as Jasper jumps up, trying to restrain Octavia.

          “What did you do to him?” Octavia cries.

          “He’s lost a lot of blood! He just fainted from exhaustion! Octavia, get out of my way!”

          “You’re going to kill him! You’re going to kill Bellamy!” Clarke has never seen Octavia this angry, or this frightened.

          “I’m the _only_ one who can save him!”

          “Will you save him?” Octavia asks. “Or is he going to be yet another person who’s died under your care?”

          The words escape Clarke’s lips before she can stop them. “He might.” It’s the truth. Octavia strains against Jasper’s arms.

          “Octavia, she’s doing her best!” Jasper says. 

          “Get her out of here!” Clarke orders, and Jasper drags Octavia kicking and screaming out of the drop ship.

          “Your best isn’t enough, Clarke! Your best has killed people! If you kill him, I’ll kill you!”

          Clarke holds her her head, forgetting about the blood on her hands. She smears the blood across her cheeks.

          Now it’s just her and Bellamy, unconscious. 

          Dying. 

          His breathing is faint. Needles, thread. Stitch it up—nothing she hasn’t done before. His face is pale—he’s lost too much blood.

          “Don’t die, don’t die,” she whispers. There’s still an arrowhead trapped in his chest somewhere under his heart. She thinks about all the arteries she could sever trying to get it out, and it’s too much. Her throat starts to constrict. She gasps, trying to get more air in to her starved lungs.

          “Okay, okay. It’s okay, Bellamy,” she says in between gasps. She can’t do this, she’s not her mother. She tries to control her breathing. “It’s alright, it’s fine. You’re fine.” Who’s she talking to? Bellamy is in front of her, dying. She’s hyperventilating, panicking. She tries not to, because it’s making it harder to keep her hands steady. She holds her breath. Tweezers, scalpel. How deep did the arrow go? Pull it out gently, please, please don’t hurt anything else. He’s fine, there’s blood, but not too much. Stitch it up, stitch it up, stitch it up.

          He’s pale, he’s barely breathing.

          He’s not breathing. 

          “No, no, no, Bellamy,” Clarke whispers. He’s dying. She’s about to lose him and she can’t. She can’t lose Bellamy. What would they do without Bellamy? He keeps everyone alive. What would _she_ do without Bellamy? She can’t lose Bellamy.

          Her mom taught her CPR when she was five. One, two, three, breathe. Bellamy’s lips against her own. They’re cold. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. Blood—he needs more blood.

          Act now, think later. Don’t let him die. She plunges a syringe into her skin, choking blood out of her own veins. Drop by drop she gives life back to Bellamy. She goes until she’s too dizzy to be drawing out her own blood.

          “Don’t be dead,” she pleads, cupping her hands around his face. They’re covered in his blood. She thinks about everything that could go wrong if their blood types weren’t compatible. 

          But he’s breathing and he’s warmer. His face is no longer blank, but strained. He’s in pain, and that’s good. Clarke breathes in a huge sigh of relief and collapses onto the ground. She kneels there for a few minuets before Raven walks in.

          “Clarke, are you okay?” she asks. Clarke breathes deeply again, looks up, and nods.

          “Yeah, I’m fine. We’re both fine.”

 

          It’s later, much later, when Clarke finally returns to check on Bellamy. Raven insisted she needed food, water, and rest, so she scrubbed herself clean of blood and napped in Raven’s tent. Octavia approaches her before she enters the drop ship.

          “Thanks,” Octavia says, looking at the ground. “And I’m sorry I pushed you.”

          Clarke wonders who put her up to this. Octavia looks like a preschooler being told to go apologize for fighting with the other kid on the playground. “It’s fine,” Clarke says. “I understand.”

          Clarke walks to the drop ship and pushes the parachute screen out of the way. She finds Bellamy lying on the floor, covered in blankets. Her surgical table is empty and mess-free. Someone cleaned it for her. 

          She sits cross-legged on the floor next to Bellamy. He seems so small, so peaceful while he’s sleeping. The hard lines on his face are gone, the heaviness to his brow. He’s softer, more vulnerable.

          Clarke reaches out a tentative hand towards Bellamy. She strokes his cheek delicately with her knuckles. He doesn’t move, so she scoots closer to him. Gingerly, she lifts the blankets off of him and exposes his chest. She checks his bandages. They aren’t bleeding too much, which is a relief. She traces soft lines down his ribs with her fingers before replacing the bandages. When she looks up, his eyes are trained on her.

          “Hey, Princess,” he says.

          “I was checking your bandages,” she stammers. It’s true, obviously. Why is she blushing?

          Bellamy smiles slightly. He looks too weak to come up with any sort of retort, so he just closes his eyes. “Alright,” he says. “Princess,” he adds as an afterthought. His grin slips away as he drifts back to sleep.

          Clarke doesn’t leave though. She watches him while he sleeps, checks him for fever, and fusses over his blankets. She memorizes the lines of his face, all while feeling something indescribable clutching at a space behind her lungs. 

          Night falls. She hears the camp start to settle down. She curls her knees up to her chest and stays put. 

          Some time later Bellamy shifts back to consciousness. “You’re still here,” he says.

          “I would care if you died,” she blurts out, because it’s been eating at her insides.

          “Obviously,” Bellamy says. He groans as he shifts his body a little.

          “That’s not how this works,” Clarke says. “I wouldn’t have let you die just because I don’t like you. I would have tried to save you anyway.”

          A pause. “So, what then?”

          “I just… wanted to say, I didn’t mean what I said before. I wanted to save you. I tried really hard to save you.” She rubs at the needle marks on the inside of her arm, but stops when Bellamy glances down, covering the marks with her hand. “You’re right, you know. You’re keeping everyone alive. These kids need you, Bell,” she swallows. No one calls him Bell except for Octavia. Bellamy’s eyebrows twitch, but he doesn’t say anything. “Bellamy,” she tries again.

          “Alright, I get it. But you still don’t like me, right?” Bellamy makes an attempt at a chuckle but groans again. She thinks about her own blood running through his veins.

          “I don’t like you, but I need you.” The former feels like a lie all of a sudden. The latter words taste strange slipping off of her tongue. She wants to say them again. She doesn’t.

          She’s suddenly very aware of herself—the coldness of the metal floor she’s sitting on, the chill that’s seeped into her skin, the minor aches from having sat there for so long. She should probably leave.

          She starts to stands up. Bellamy’s eyes follow her.

          “Clarke, wait,” he says, and reaches out a hand. The gesture is ‘stop’ and that’s obviously what he’s going for but Clarke absentmindedly reaches out her own hand anyway. She realizes her mistake as her fingers are lacing through his. She drops his hand quickly, standing up straight and taking a step back.

          “Yeah?” she asks.

          He won’t meet her gaze.

          “Never mind,” he says. 

 

          It’s only days before Bellamy is well enough to be seen outside his tent. His wounds stopped bleeding and his skin started to knit back together, and he could be seen barking orders to the delinquents. Clarke was back to treating small colds and minor accidents. 

          Camp was back to normal again.

          Briefly. 

          Clarke wakes up late to the sounds of footsteps, yelling, and general disorder. She leaves her tent and immediately finds Jasper.

          “What’s wrong?” she asks.

          “Grounder sighting,” says Jasper. “Not far from our camp.”

          She follows Jasper to Bellamy’s tent. Octavia, Raven, and Finn are already there.

          “Is anyone hurt?” Clarke asks. Bellamy shakes his head and Clarke breathes a sigh of relief. 

          “It’s probably just a scout,” says Bellamy. “But we need a plan of action.”

          “Or attack,” says Raven. 

          “Or it could be nothing,” says Finn. “We could just try to live peacefully with them.”

          Raven rolls her eyes.

          “I don’t know if that’s an option anymore,” Clarke says. 

          They all look to Bellamy. “Double the guards,” he says. “We’ll send a group out to check the area. For now, no one else leaves the camp.”

          They all nod. Clarke notices how grateful everyone is to have a leader like Bellamy. 

          “What do you think, Clarke?” asks Bellamy. Clarke starts a little bit. He looks at her intently, as if he really values her input. Does he?

          “I think it’s a great idea,” says Clarke. “But you’re not going with them. You’re still recovering.”

          Clarke expects him to scoff and say he was fine, shake his head and disregard her but instead he smirks. “Doctor’s orders,” he says, shrugging. “Tell Miller to lead the group,” he says to Jasper. Jasper nods and leaves, followed by Finn and Raven. Clarke thinks she sees Octavia shoot her a grateful look before she also leaves the tent. 

          Just Clarke and Bellamy. She feels uneasy in the silence.

          “How are your wounds?” she asks. “Are they still bleeding? Do you need new bandages?”

          He shakes his head no. She asked him this yesterday. She fidgets again in the silence. 

          He looks strong. He’s a fighter. Of course he’s alive—Clarke chastises herself for even thinking he could die. If anyone was a survivor, it was Bellamy. Again, she thinks of putting her own blood into Bellamy’s veins and her fingers find the faded bruises on the inside of her arm.

          He takes notice this time, and his hand reaches out. He takes her hand by her wrist, uncovering the bruise marks. He looks up at her, but there’s no question in his eyes. He knows what they are. He has the same marks on the inside of his arm.

          “Our blood types are compatible,” is all she can think to say. 

          He looks down, nodding. She’s immensely aware of his fingers wrapped around her wrist and that feeling again, at the base of her lungs. His hand is warm. Clarke wonders if he’s getting enough rest, if anyone’s making sure of that. Bellamy takes care of his sister, Bellamy takes care of everyone, but who takes care of Bellamy?

          She reaches her other hand up to feel his forehead.

          “Clarke,” he protests. She closes her hand into a fist.

          “Right,” she says. She’s aware of how this works. Co-leaders. They respect each other, but they don’t like each other. They need each other, but not too much. They have balance, but they don’t depend on each other.

          That’s it.

          Clarke pulls her hand out of Bellamy’s grasp. Her hand slips through his, but he grabs her fingers at the last moment.

          “Thank you,” he says, and he looks at her. “I owe you one, Princess.” 

          “First one’s free,” she says, and Bellamy smiles.

          It’s so rare to see him genuinely smile. His smile is dappled sunlight through tall trees, fresh air, rain against her skin, and the solid ground beneath her feet. His smile is everything Earth is and space is not. 

          Clarke grins back. She holds Bellamy’s hand for a moment longer.

          “We’ll get everyone through this. I know we will.”

          She leaves Bellamy’s tent and looks around the camp. The delinquents mill about, some getting ready to leave the camp, some standing guard, others doing various errands. All of them interacting, talking, living together down on Earth. Just under a hundred individual lives, and what a daunting task it is to try to save them all.

          But it’s easier, she thinks, with Bellamy at her side.


End file.
